“He who makes himself the champion to defend a young girl’s character,” said Madame d’Argy, sententiously, “injures her as much as those who have spoken evil of her.”

“That is exactly what I think,” said Giselle.  “The self-constituted champion has given the evil rumor circulation.”

There was again a painful silence.  Then the intrepid little woman resumed:  “This step on the part of Monsieur de Cymier seems to have rendered my errand unnecessary.  I had thought of a way to end this sad affair; a very simple way, much better, most certainly, than men cutting their own throats or those of other people.  But since peace has been made over the ruins of Jacqueline’s reputation, I had better say nothing and go away.”

“No—­no!  Let us hear what you had to propose,” said Fred, getting up from his couch so quickly that he jarred his bandaged arm, and uttered a cry of pain, which seemed very much like an oath, too.

Giselle was silent.  Standing before the hearth, she was warming her small feet, watching, as she did so, Madame d’Argy’s profile, which was reflected in the mirror.  It was severe—­impenetrable.  It was Fred who spoke first.

“In the first place,” he said, hesitating, “are you sure that Mademoiselle de Nailles has not just arrived from Monaco?”

“I am certain that for a week she has been living quietly with Modeste, and that, though she passed through Monaco, she did not stay there—­twenty-four hours, finding that the air of that place did not agree with her.”

“But what do you say to what Monsieur Martel saw with his own eyes, and which is confirmed by public rumor?” cried Madame d’Argy, as if she were giving a challenge.

“Monsieur Martel saw Jacqueline in bad company.  She was not there of her own will.  As to public rumor, we may feel sure that to make it as flattering to her tomorrow as it is otherwise to-day only a marriage is necessary.  Yes, a marriage!  That is the way I had thought of to settle everything and make everybody happy.”

“What man would marry a girl who had compromised herself?” said Madame d’Argy, indignantly.

“He who has done his part to compromise her.”

“Then go and propose it to Monsieur de Cymier!”

“No.  It is not Monsieur de Cymier whom she loves.”

“Ah!” Madame d’Argy was on her feet at once.  “Indeed, Giselle, you are losing your senses.  If I were not afraid of agitating Fred—­”

He was, in truth, greatly agitated.  The only hand that he could use was pulling and tearing at the little blue cape crossed on his breast, in which his mother had wrapped him; and this unsuitable garment formed such a queer contrast to the expression of his face that Giselle, in her nervous excitement, burst out laughing, an explosion of merriment which completed the exasperation of Madame d’Argy.

“Never!” she cried, beside herself.  “You hear me—­never will I consent, whatever happens!”